The torch Yeull carried spluttered and hissed as the man shivered ahead of Ussü, muttering beneath his breath as if in conversation with himself. Ussü wondered, not for the first time, just when a new overlord might be necessary. Not he or Borun; both had found their place. One of the remaining division commanders perhaps, Genarin, or Tesh kel. Yeull had never been popular with the men, given as he was to brooding. But he’d been getting less and less reliable of late.
Borun led the way into a chamber carved from stone. Along one side stood a row of smaller alcoves, each barred. Cells. And around the main room instruments of … punishment and persuasion.
Just as Ussü had found them so long ago when the fortress fell. Very bloodthirsty, that last Roolian dynasty. And forgotten in the most distant pit, enduring, perhaps older even than that generation itself, the last occupant. Had he been overlooked during those last days of panic as the Malazan fist closed? Or had he already been forgotten – slipping from the living memory of humanity as dynasty followed dynasty in their cycles of rebellion and decline? Who was to say? He himself refused to enlighten them.
Borun stopped at a great iron sarcophagus some three paces in length lying within a metal framework upon the bare stone. He set his torch in a brazier, then took hold of a tall iron wheel next to the frame. This he ratcheted, his breath harsh with effort. As the wheel turned long iron spikes slowly withdrew from holes set all down the sides of the sarcophagus, and in rows across its front.
When the ends of these countless iron spikes emerged from within the stained openings a thick black fluid, blood of a kind, dripped viscous and thick from their needle tips. A slow rumbling exhalation of breath sounded then. It stirred the dust surrounding the sarcophagus.
Ussü bent over the coffin. ‘Cherghem? You can hear me?’
A voice no more substantial than that breath sounded from within. I hear you.
‘You say you have information for us? You sense something?’
Food. Water.
‘Not until you speak.’
Water.
Ussü took a ladle from a nearby bucket and dashed its contents across the spike holes in the iron masking the head of the casket. ‘There. You have water. Now speak!’
And the Overlord? He is here?
‘Yes.’ Ussü gestured Yeull forward.
But the Overlord would not move; he stood immobile, staring, one hand clenching the fur hide at his neck, the other white upon the haft of a torch held so close as to nearly set his hair aflame. His face appeared drained of all blood, its skein of scars livid.
‘High Fist …’ Ussü began, coaxing, ‘you must speak.’
The mouth opened but no sound emerged.
I sense him there, his heart pounding like a star in the night. Overlord, I have news for you.
‘Yes? News?’ the man croaked, stricken. ‘What news?’
They are coming for you, Yeull.
‘What’s that? Who?’
Ussü cast an uncertain glance across the sarcophagus to Borun who had cocked his armoured head aside, gauntlets clenching.
You did not think they would allow you your own personal fiefdom, did you? Your superiors, far to the north, they are coming to reassert control of their territory. No doubt you will hang as a usurper.
‘How can you know this?’ Ussü demanded.
I sense their approach.
‘From whence will they come? The west or the east?’
The east.
Ussü did not think it possible for the High Fist to pale any further, yet he did. ‘High Fist … we cannot be sure …’
But Yeull was backing away, shaking his head in terrified denial, his eyes huge dark pits. ‘No, they are coming … they will never stop. Never leave me alone.’
Ussü moved to follow. ‘High Fist …’
And can you guess who leads them?
Though Ussü knew this ancient being was laughing within, savouring his power over them, he turned to regard the impassive scarred iron mask, had to ask, ‘Who?’
Your old friend, Overlord … the one some name Stonewielder.
Yeull leapt to the wheel, torch falling. ‘How do you know this?’ he demanded.
I sense what he carries at his side – an artefact unique in all existence, but for one other.
The ratcheting of the mechanism shocked Ussü as it spun under Yeull’s hand.
The spikes thrust their way irresistibly into Cherghem’s flesh – such as it was – much deeper than ever, as far as they could, and the prisoner groaned, convulsing in a shudder that shook the stone beneath their feet. Then, silence. Ussü listened for an intake of breath, heard none.
‘That’s enough from you,’ Yeull ground out, snarling. He retrieved his torch, motioned to the stairs. As they walked the Moranth commander fell back to join Ussü. ‘Think you he was lying?’
‘No. It was inevitable … just sooner than I had hoped.’
‘What must we do?’
Ussü eyed the back of the Overlord, almost invisible in the gloom. ‘More germane to my mind is the question … what will you do?’
The Moranth’s chitinous armour plates grated in an indifferent shrug. ‘I am pledged to Yeull, my commander. He orders, I obey.’
‘I see.’ Ussü did not bother disguising his relief. Over a thousand Black Moranth – our iron core. We may yet have a chance. ‘Through my contacts I will warn Mare, let them know another invasion fleet will be approaching.’ They reached the locked iron door and Overlord Yeull, waiting, jaws clenched rigid in irritation and frustrated rage. ‘With any luck,’ Ussü finished, ‘not one ship will escape them as before.’
No less than five times Tal, First of the Chase, promised her war band blood. Each time the trespassers slipped their grasp. No ambush succeeded. Not even the gathering cold slowed the passage of these foreigners across the icefields. Now the Chase, the premiere Jhek war party, must content itself with a protracted hunt across the crevasses of the Great Northern Agal.
Tal signalled a halt, pulled off her bulky fur and hide mitts. Her breath clouded the air. Hemtl, her second, stopped next to her. His furred hood and ivory eye-shield obscured his face, but she could well imagine his boyish sulk. He motioned to the tracks scuffing the snow. ‘Still they remain ahead. They must be of the demons of old, the Forkul.’
‘The Forkul would not run,’ said a third voice and Tal suppressed a jerked start of surprise – Ruk had done it again. She turned: there he stood, arms and legs all crooked, in his hides of white, hair whiter still, the pale silver of frost. ‘At least not from us,’ he finished.
‘What would you know of the Forkul?’ Hemtl demanded. Wincing, Tal turned away. You are second, Hemtl. Ruk did not seek the position. No need to remind anyone – except yourself.
Ruk was silent, allowing the wind to whisper his answer to each: More than you.
The rest of the hunt had halted a distance back and crouched, indistinguishable among the wind-blown drifts. ‘This is a waste,’ Tal said to the blinding white horizon. ‘I have lost count of the spoor we’ve passed.’
‘Five snow bear and stragglers of the Ice River herd,’ supplied Ruk.
‘The insult must be answered!’ Hemtl snarled.
Still facing away, Tal let out a long pluming breath. ‘What does the land say?’
‘Stone and rock are far away, Tal,’ said Ruk. ‘The Jaghut ice smothers all other voices.’
‘Yet?’
‘Yet there are whispers …’
She turned to the old man. Why the reluctance? His shielded gaze was turned aside. His hair blew free. Did the man not feel their old enemy’s biting cold? For the first time in the hunt Tal felt the tightening in her throat that comes with the cornering of a snow bear or a giant tusker. Who were these strangers? ‘Whispers of what?’ she breathed.
‘Of the ancestral Hold. Tellann.’
‘Impossible!’ burst out Hemtl. ‘That cannot be.’
‘Not impossible,’ answered Tal, thoughtful. ‘The Elders stil
l walk the land. Logros, Kron, Ifayle. The path is still open – we have just lost the way.’
‘The Jag curse of ice has smothered it,’ Ruk agreed.
‘There are other ways …’ Hemtl said, his voice sullen. ‘The Broken God beckons.’
‘He is not of the land,’ Ruk answered, his dismissal complete.
Tal raised a hand to sign for a halt. ‘Ruk and I will go ahead, see if they will speak to us.’
‘Speak?’ said Hemtl. ‘To what end?’
‘Who knows?’ And she laughed to chide Hemtl. ‘Perhaps they will surrender, hey?’
Tal and Ruk jogged onward. They picked up their pace from their normal league-sustaining trot of pursuit, closing the distance between them and their quarry. After a time the change in tactics was discovered and the party of four ahead slowed then stopped, awaiting them far across the ice. Closing, she and Ruk slowed as well, came to a halt themselves. Tal held out her gloved hands. ‘Do you understand me?’ she called in Korelri.
‘We do,’ an accented voice answered from over the windswept field. ‘What is there for us to talk of?’
What was there for them to talk of? Where could she possibly start? ‘By what right do you so arrogantly cross our lands?’
The four spoke among themselves. One raised his hands to his mouth. ‘Your lands? We thought these wastes empty. Why do you chase us?’
Why? What fools these foreigners were! ‘Why? Because these are our lands! You are trespassers. You eat caribou – that is food taken from our families.’
The four spoke again. ‘We offer our apologies. But there are so many. That herd numbered thousands!’
Tal and Ruk could not help but exchange looks of exasperation. Foreigners! Elder Gods deliver them from the uncomprehending fools. Tal called across the ice, ‘Yes, so it would seem. Yet every one of those spoken for, and that all our families have! What of the herds of your lords? What if they were kept all together and someone, seeing all their number, helped himself to one seeing as they numbered so? What would then happen to him?’
‘He would be imprisoned, or maimed,’ admitted the foreign trespasser, his voice now sounding tired. ‘Very well. Come forward. Perhaps we should speak.’
Tal looked to Ruk, who nodded his assent. They found three men and one woman, all four ill dressed for the cold, shivering, the leathers under their cloaks soaked in sweat that froze into frost and ice before Tal’s eyes. How could these ill-prepared wretches have forestalled them time and again? But the spokesman, a muscular squat fellow, dark-skinned, was sitting on his haunches calmly awaiting them. Tal squatted down with him. ‘Greetings.’
‘Greetings. It would seem we owe you our apologies and reparation of some kind. That is acceptable to us if it is acceptable to you. What repayment would you require?’
Astonished, Tal glanced up at Ruk but found the man grinning at one of the strangers, a skinny youth bearing an unruly thatch of thick black hair. This one wore a brooch on his wool cloak, a silver snake or dragon over a red field. The sight of that insignia triggered a distant recognition within Tal. Thinking of that vague impression, she asked, ‘Your names, first.’
The four exchanged uncertain glances. Why the uneasiness? What could they possibly have to hide? But then the spokesman shrugged. ‘Fair enough. I am Blues. This is Fingers, Lazar, Shell. We are of the Crimson Guard.’
Tal rocked back on her heels. That name she knew. Crimson Guard – they had ruled Stratem to the south in her grandfather’s time. Warriors and mages, her grandfather had told her. War is for them as is the hunt for us. Examining the four, Tal now wondered who had let who escape back there so many times on the trail.
The two named Fingers and Shell straightened then, their gazes roving about. Blues frowned. ‘What … ?’
‘It’s a trap,’ Fingers said. ‘We’re surrounded.’
Ruk thrust himself to his feet, cursing. ‘The young fool!’
Tal straightened as well, knowing what she would see. Hemtl had cast the Chase out in a broad encirclement and they closed now, he coming forward. He pointed his spear, calling, ‘Harm our two and you all die!’
None of the four had made any move to defend themselves or restrain Tal and Ruk. Tal raised her hands to Blues. ‘We had no knowledge of this.’
Blues gave his gentle assent. ‘I know – you wouldn’t have delivered yourselves otherwise.’
‘Let me speak to him.’
‘You’d better,’ the man answered quietly.
That gentle warning moved Tal to run to Hemtl. Ruk remained, as if offering himself out of shame as hostage.
‘You fool!’ she snarled, closing.
The young man was panting, his face flushed. ‘We have them. Your trick stopped them.’
‘It wasn’t a trick. This isn’t a game. I was close to terms. Now, thanks to you, I doubt I’ll be able to salvage this …’
But Hemtl wasn’t facing her. Spear levelled, he shouted, ‘Release our man or you will all die!’
Tal slapped him. The blow sent his visor flying, loosed his mane of long kinked hair to blow in the wind. His eyes went huge. ‘I see it now,’ he breathed. ‘You would betray us – allow them to escape for payment. You are a whore …’
She raised her arm to slap him again but he was quicker and it was as if instantly the man’s spear was through her stomach. She felt the broad flint head glance from the bone of her pelvis. How easy it is to die, she thought, amazed, before a sea of pain erased all else. To her shame she screamed but over that she heard the roar of Ruk’s bull outrage.
Tal did not expect to ever awaken again, yet she did. It was night. The lights of the Holds shimmered pink and green in the black starry sky. A fire burned nearby. A woman’s face loomed close. The foreigner, Shell. Then Ruk, face wet with tears. ‘What … what …’ she murmured before sleep took her once more.
When she awoke again it was light and she was strapped in a travois. The men and women of her hunt all gathered around. Ruk pushed his way forward. He took her head in his rough hands. ‘I thought we’d lost you.’
‘What happened?’
‘You were healed. The foreigners healed you. It was far beyond our skills. We’re taking you home now.’
‘Ruk!’ she snarled, then gasped her pain. ‘What happened?’
The old man glanced away. The wind threw his long snow-bright hair about. ‘I killed him.’
She’d thought so. Good – in that he’d managed to keep it among themselves. No new blood feud. Now Ruk would present himself at the Guth-Ull, the council of chiefs, and hear their judgement. They should be lenient, considering.
‘And the foreigners?’
‘Gone.’
‘Gone? I can’t even thank them?’
Ruk shook his head in wonderment at the strange ways of all those not blessed enough to be of the Jhek. ‘They left as soon as they knew you were mended. Would not wait. Said they’d been in a rush because they were in a hurry to rescue a friend. Damned odd these strangers, yes?’
No. Perhaps not so odd, old friend.
‘So where, in the name of all the buggering Faladah, are we?’
Kiska eyed the man. Her … what? Protector? She’d frankly rather die. Guide? Obviously not. Partner? Hardly. Ally? … Perhaps. To be generous – perhaps. She knew nothing of the man, though she’d like to think that the Enchantress was no fool. He was wrapping a cloth about his face and neck in a manner that spoke of long practice and easy familiarity. She scanned the horizon: league after league of desolate near-desert prostrate beneath a dull slate sky. She knew this place. It had been a long time, yet how could anyone ever forget?
‘Shadow. We are in the Shadow Realm.’
The man grunted his distaste. ‘The Kingdom of the Deceiver? He is reviled in my lands.’
Kneeling, Kiska laid her roll on the ground. She took articles from her pockets and waist, including a water skin, wrapped dried meat and the sack, and folded them tightly into the roll, which she then tied off with rope. This
went on to her back. She pulled a grey cloth from beneath her leather hauberk, and, like Jheval, wrapped it round her head and face. Thin leather gloves finished the change; she yanked them tight, then checked the ties of the two long-knives she carried towards the back of each hip.
Jheval looked her up and down, from her now dusty knee-high boots up her trousers to her full-sleeved hauberk and the headscarf she was tucking in. ‘You’re too lightly armoured,’ he observed.
‘Have to do.’
‘It won’t.’
‘That’s my problem.’
‘Not if I have to carry you.’
‘You won’t.’
The Seven Cities native had half turned away, scanning the surroundings. Now he eyed her sidelong, bemused. ‘How did you know that?’
Arsehole. She gestured to one side. ‘Let’s take a look from that rise,’ she said, and headed off. After a moment she heard him follow. At least he hasn’t tried to take charge. That’s something. And he had the grace, or the confidence, to admit he had no idea where they were. Nothing too insufferable yet.
The yielding sands pulled at her feet; already she felt tired. From the modest rise she now saw what she presumed to be the hills the Enchantress spoke of. They were no more than lumps on the distant horizon – or what she assumed must be distant; there was no way of knowing here in Shadow. Beside her Jheval grunted upon spotting the feature, and in that single vocalization Kiska read his frustration and disgust at the sight.
Smiling behind her headscarf, she headed down the slope.
Some time later – and she had no way of knowing how long that might’ve been – as they walked more or less side by side, yet apart, she grew tired of squinting into the distances, searching for a hint of the geography she’d encountered during earlier visits to this realm. She saw nothing familiar, and decided it was ridiculous to search for it; Shadow must be vast, and any traveller in Genabackis may as well hope for a glimpse of the Fenn Mountains.
During all this time she hadn’t spoken. But then, neither had Jheval. Clearing her throat, her gaze fixed ahead, she began, ‘So. Strictly speaking, should we be enemies?’
The Malazan Empire Series: (Night of Knives, Return of the Crimson Guard, Stonewielder, Orb Sceptre Throne, Blood and Bone, Assail) (Novels of the Malazan Empire) Page 131